


i could fall

by krysalla



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Assault, F/M, Love, Sex, Worry, dick has heterochromia, will add more tags as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-06-13 13:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15365805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krysalla/pseuds/krysalla
Summary: You’re lonely and unfulfilled, working a dead-end job to catch up with tuition payments and damn near drowning in the obstacles life keeps throwing at you when your friend Donna sets you up on another blind date because they have all worked so well in the past. But Dick is different than the others, even if he is just as absent in your life as your past relationships.Dick feels just about the same as you, never quite ready for a relationship nor having the time on his hands since he helped found the Titans. It’s not like it will last, anyone he has loved or tried to get involved in either end up injured or leave because him being Nightwing- and his partners not knowing- is too much to handle, but something about you makes him want to spill his secret, too lift the burden from his shoulders.





	1. Chapter 1

Meeting him is hardly romantic, hardly the love at first sight meeting you dreamt of when you were young. And maybe it’s a little naive of you to think that that could have ever happened, the pause and catching each other’s eyes, the world feeling like it was falling into place and the rush of adrenaline and heat before the calm finally comes. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. You feel indifferent towards him. He’s only a friend of a friend. And as much as you may love Donna, she has never played well as a matchmaker, which you have told her multiple times on her desperate attempts to pair you up with her friends. 

He sat next to you, and while you were neutral on him- and maybe a little aggressive at the idea of having to go out with  _another_ guy that Donna inevitably knows from her studio, you could admit- although begrudgingly- that he was indeed a very beautiful and attractive man. Dark hair that falls into his eyes, just a little messy, but not the messy of a man who just rolled out of bed, but a very relaxed and perfected looked of messiness. A sharp jaw and kissable lips, olive skin and maybe his most striking feature- the mismatching color of his eyes. One a deep brown and the other a clear blue. 

You resolve not to look at him too much throughout the night. You know it wouldn’t take much for him to break down the already crumbling wall of disinterest in him.

Donna glows across from you, but that may be from the help of the pretty woman that sits next to her. Another one of her models you are sure. You’re surrounded by so much beauty here and it makes you a little sick, and maybe you sink a little into yourself.

But of course, Donna notices. She clears her throat and smiles at you before turning to look at Dick, “Why don’t you tell us about your economics class?”

Koriand’r laughs a little too loud, attracting the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Her laugh makes other people smile, despite the fact that if anyone else would have done this, they would have received glares. It must be the warmth that she practically radiates that keeps everyone from getting pissed at her. Donna falls suit in laughing, unable to keep the straight face while Dick grumbles next to you. 

You feel left out of it though, unsure if it’s something you should laugh at or be upset at. You appreciate Donna’s attempt to make you feel a little more comfortable, but she’s only made it worse.

“You tell someone you took econ once…” Dick crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair. 

You take the opportunity to glance at him, only turning your head slightly, not wanting to put so much commitment or care into this. His bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout and brow knitted together. You could almost laugh at the expression. 

Just as you are about to look away, the five seconds you’d allow yourself to look at him, he meets your eyes and smiles a little hopelessly at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks and ears, quickly looking to the menu that lies in front of you on the table.

It goes by in a blur, but maybe it’s because you drink so much water in an attempt to have a valid reason to leave the table every so often. The alcohol helps too.

You’re just on the right side of buzzed, and maybe you’ve let your guard down a little more than you usually like, but it’s okay because you’ve decided you like both Koriand’r and Dick. Maybe not enough to seriously pursue a relationship with Dick, but enough to text Kori in the morning about your killer headache.

Donna and Kori say their goodbyes, waving and giggling as they pile into a cab outside of the restaurant, leaving you standing next to Dick. Suddenly, you feel a bit smaller, a little more aware of yourself as you stand there, hands stuffed in your pockets and a shiver running down your spine. 

“So,” you say, rolling on the balls of your feet, looking up at him and squinting at the halo of light around him from the street light.

“So,” Dick repeats.

You bite the inside of your cheek, looking for anything to say to him, but drawing a blank. You just weren’t meant for social situations like this. No wonder why you’re single and Donna is so worried about you.

“I should-”

“Could I-”

You just stare at each other, unsure of how to proceed. You’re burning up more than you were before. You cross your arms over your chest, shoulders squared, but he does the unexpected. He laughs. And it’s quite a pretty sound. You’d heard it while you were eating, but it was drowned out by the white noise of the other customers and by the own conversation between the four of you.

Dick makes a motion to tell you to keep going, but you shake your head. You would rather hear what he has to say before ending the night so young. Maybe it’s time to be unafraid of a little rejection and hope for something good instead of expecting the bad.

“Can I walk you home?” he rubs the back of his neck and looks at you sheepishly.

You know it’s not real, but it feels like your heart is lifting in relief. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but this is better than whatever your mind could have thought of.

“Who says I wasn’t gonna take a cab? Little presumptuous of you, Richard,” you smile, brushing your hair out of your face, “I’d love to have the company.”

He lets out a breath, shoulders sagging and an easy smile pulling at his lips. You don’t think you’ve ever quite met a man like this, all the confidence in the world until it comes to something so simple.

“You can call me Dick,” he says as he offers an arm to you, but then looks a little lost at you, waiting on you to lead him in the right direction.

“Maybe,” you loop your arm through his and tug him towards your apartment, “But it seems a little dated, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but I can make jokes about my name that annoy my siblings.”

* * *

It takes you nearly two hours to get to your building even though you live two miles from the restaurant. You both get distracted. At first, it was a little cafe and he tempted you with hot drinks and conversation, a chance to get out of the cold night that you were both underprepared for. Dick had already given you his jacket and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side in an attempt to shield you from the cold. And although you figure that it’s too soon to even be that close with him, you welcome it. 

He tells you about his family- the crazy amount of siblings he has and the antics that come with it. He talks about school, his wandering in attempts to find what he wants to do, to break free from some kind of shadow that hangs over him. You can tell he’s holding things back, but wouldn’t you? It’s your first date with him, you wouldn’t be so keen on opening up too.

You’re surprised at how easy conversation flows between you like you’re old friends just catching up with each other. Everything just clicks together. 

Then you drag him into a corner store, craving something sweet and salty. Neither of you had actually eaten too much, too wrapped up in the way Donna and Koriand’r talk, unable to tear yourselves away from the conversation, and the food wasn’t that good either.

You stand outside your door, a step above Dick, and you’re finally the same height as him. And all you can do is stare, unable to move or you just don’t want to, unwilling to let this night end even though you never wanted to come out when Donna pushed you out of your door. You’ll have to thank her later.

“So. This,” he glances up from his feet and looks you in the eyes. He looks about as eager as you are to part ways, “is goodnight.”

You nod halfheartedly, “I guess it is.”

“Can I call you tomorrow?” 

“You still call people?” you tilt your head, smiling a little at the absurdity of your response. You know you’re going to go over it in your head the moment you lay down in bed, wondering what would happen if you said something else.

“Yeah,” he shrugs and plays with his jacket that hangs over his arm, “It’s more personal.”

“Then yes. You can call me tomorrow.”

“Yeah? Okay. Great!” Dick laughs and rolls from his heels to his tiptoes, raising himself above you and then settling back to look you in the eyes, “Would it be too soon if I kissed you on the cheek?”

You scoff, “It would be disappointing if you didn’t.”

Dick beams and for a second, he doesn’t make a move, doesn’t commit to what he asked of you. He just stares, taking you in, and it makes you feel small again, like he’s able to see all your flaws right there even though the only lighting is a street lamp at the curb. You can’t breathe. It’s the anticipation, to feel him, skin against skin and really and truly feel his warmth on you. He moves, leaning close to you and turning his head just so, and it feels like slow motion. His lips leave a tender kiss on your cheek and you hope that he didn’t accidentally get a taste of your makeup. 

It’s warm and soft and you would say everything you imagined, but you didn’t imagine it, you don’t dream about it, any of this kind of stuff. You just never saw it happening to you, but feeling it, it’s like you can feel a piece of you missing. A piece that wants these small gestures in your life. 

You smile, shoulders sagging and body no longer tense. Dick looks so off, drifting away like he’s found his own cloud nine. His eyes look a little hazy, but that could be the poor lighting. His smile though, you can see that clear as day.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around you, noticing the chill as you step back from him.

“Goodnight,” he sounds breathless and looks hesitant to leave, but turns anyway, sparing one last glance over his shoulder before turning onto the sidewalk with his hands stuffed in his pockets and head held high.

* * *

You wait by your phone all day, constantly checking your phone, sneaking peeks at it throughout work, just to be sure you haven’t missed anything, any notifications. You only have a text from Donna. Not incredibly disappointing, but better than the average day. 

It might be a little pathetic, but you’re okay with that. Nobody is here to see it. He’s probably just as busy as anyone in college and a job is. It’s no big deal, you shouldn’t have even expected so much.

And when you go home, you wait, cell phone always within reaching distance.

This is just what you get for getting your hopes up.

Another full day goes by, and you know you shouldn’t have worked yourself up so hard over this guy. Maybe you should just tell Donna not to set you up with people anymore. There’s only so many times you wanted to be disappointed. At least Donna seems to be doing okay.

“Hey, hey, hon, Dick is just busy and trust me he is absolutely head over heels for you. I don’t think I’ve actually ever seen him respond that well to anyone I try to set him up with.”

“Oh, so I’m not the only one you do this to?” you try to make a little light of this, just to distract from the way that your heart speeds up at her words. He actually, really and truly likes you. Then again, that just might be Donna trying to make you feel better.

“Oh shush,” she clicks her tongue, “You’re thinking too hard about this.”

“I didn’t even- You can’t even see me!”

“Yeah, but I know you. And I know right now, you are sitting on that couch, bouncing your leg and wondering what the hell you were thinking and trying to lock all your feelings down and throw ‘em out a window before you get hurt by a man who was-  _is-_ obviously interested in you,” Donna laughs and her heels click on the ground, “You’re way too predictable. Please, do not go into a catatonic state before I get there.”

You huff and roll your eyes, “Okay, Donna.”

It’s only another half hour until she barges in, laughing and carrying bags of takeout and the very happy Koriand’r following her in. It’s surprising to say the least, but you don’t mind.

“Sorry, babe. Kori was just wandering around-”

“I am still quite new to New York. I hope you don’t mind that I came here with Donna.”

You shake your head and wave them over to you, “I don’t mind in the slightest. It’s always good to have more people over, More opinions. Better times.”

“Am I not cutting it for you anymore?” Donna scoffs, setting down the bags of food and digging through them, “No food for you I guess.”

“Pfft, you know how much I love you,” you swipe the styrofoam container from her. She tosses a plastic bag of utensils and napkins to you. You mix up the curry in the container, frowning as you realize that you’ll actually have to talk about him, “Do you think Dick and I… do you think we hit it off? Or was I just imagining it?”

“Oh, hon,” she brushes her hair back and ties it into a ponytail, an old habit of hers, every time she eats, she ties her hair up, “You should have heard him. He  _thanked_  me for the double date.”

“He could have been sarcastic.”

“I’ve known Dick for a long time, babe, and trust me, this was the first time he didn’t leave in the middle of dinner with some BS excuse. He likes you.”

Koriand’r looks between you and Donna and she sighs, “You humans are so careful with your emotions.”

_Humans?_

Donna gives her a stern look before turning to you, “She just means-”

“What I mean Donna, is that you are overcomplicating this whole thing. You shouldn’t be navigating this with your brain, but with your heart. There’s not enough time to be worrying about whether he wants to love you, whether it isn’t real because it could be taken away from you just like that,” she snaps her fingers and presses her lips into a thin line, “Enjoy the time even if it is still the beginning.”

“Wow, Kori that was… intense.”

Donna sets down her food and takes Kori’s hand in hers, running her thumb over Kori’s knuckles. You know you’re missing something here, once again, but you don’t interrupt, you just watch, taking in the faraway look in her green eyes. Which you now realize, have no pupils.

* * *

You wake up earlier than usual, with the sun in your eyes and your body feeling like it’s suffocating under the heavy blanket that was appropriate for the temperature when you fell into bed.

You know you should have stopped the constant and almost compulsive like manner you looked at your phone after nine o’clock last night, but you just couldn’t. You’d only spent a few hours with Dick, but that was more than enough to get you hooked on him and his brilliant, sun dazzling smile, the easiness of conversation and the comforting nature he has.

It’s a full minute that you spend contemplating turning your phone over and revealing any notifications. But you’re scared, and maybe a little nervous. God, you hope he wasn’t playing some game with you or said that he’d call you because he felt sorry for you and hope that you would forget about him.

Now you’re just being melodramatic.

You scroll through your notifications and most of them are from your coworker, complaining about her day. You almost give up right then, completely ready to try and get over him. And you almost miss the message, the missed call and one new voice message alert. 

Your heartbeat speeds up and you shake a little in excitement. Smiling widely to yourself, you slide it open and press it to your ear. The monotone voice that announces the new message actually sounds comforting, soothing the fact that you haven’t made up the chemistry between you, that the smiles and laughter you shared were real. You bite your lip as the message starts.

“ _Hey, so, sorry for calling you so late. I probably should have just texted you. Damn, you’re probably asleep. But anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, I’m just getting home myself,”_ you hear the faint sound of a door slamming shut and Dick softly exhaling, “ _I was just wondering you were free for coffee on Tuesday. Just, uh, text or call me when you get this. Goodnight. Or good morning, I guess.”_

You can’t even be mad about the fact that he called you four days after he said you would, you’re too excited about the fact that he  _did_ call.


	2. Chapter 2

Dick pushes open the door to his apartment, trying to keep quiet for his neighbors out of courtesy but he can’t help the groan that escapes him. The muscles in his right shoulder and neck have been spasming the entire way back from the Tower. It was a hard night, only adding onto the numerous bruises he’s been acquiring the last week. He drops the duffel bag, stuffed with his Nightwing suit and equipment, and kicks it under the small table next to his door. He’ll deal with it later, all he wants right now is to go to sleep.

The television is still on and worsens the ringing in his ears which in turn, only aggravates his building headache.

He pulls himself up onto the counter and leans his head back against the cabinet that holds the few dishes he owns. It’s getting to be exhausting to keep fighting, to always have moves planned out in his head, to keep everything still and focused, but he’s not sure what he’d do without it. This has been his life since he was ten. It’s all he’s known for eleven years.

The medicine cabinet next to his head is cluttered and just another thing for him to add onto his list of things to do. He pulls out ten bottles, some empty, others expired and some he doesn’t even remember getting before he finds the Flexeril. He’s almost out again. Another addition to his to-do list. He knows better than to take the pill without water, but he can’t bear to move much. He swallows hard, feeling the pill pass through his throat in an uncomfortable manner and slouches, eyes half-lidded and breathing slow. Dick might just fall asleep on the counter.

It wouldn’t be the worst place he slept.

He’s in and out, drifting between dreams and a hazy sense of consciousness that can only be defined as real because of the knot in his neck. Dick can feel the breeze in his hair and the sharp pressure pushing against his body, flying through the air, falling, falling, falling until he’s pulled back up by his mother’s hands, tossed back into the act of the Flying Graysons. He can see her smile clear as day, but all her other features are blurry. He can’t make out the blue and brown eyes that he inherited from her.

With a start, he wakes, confused and a bad taste in his mouth. The sound of his phone ringing interrupting his dreams. He licks his lips, then immediately goes to wipe them with the back of his hand in an attempt to rid the foul feeling. 

He hops off the counter, almost shattering his ankle in the process. Dick never fared well with being startled awake. He wishes that he’d left his phone on silent, but even the persistence of the vibrations would have surely woken him up too. It’s a struggle to find the phone. He’s bleary-eyed and can’t think properly, still reeling from the dream and the sudden tightening in his chest. He knows that he has a photo of them both sitting up on his desk. No matter how many times he would come to worry about forgetting them, forgetting their faces, their lessons, their love, he would always have those few photos still left for him. All but one tucked safely away in a scrapbook.

The number on his screen pisses him off, just another telemarketer calling about some weight loss scheme, but it looks familiar. It’s your number. Dick didn’t remember to save your number.

“So, you called,” he tries to sound humorous in an attempt to mask the tiredness in his voice, “I’m sure you said that calling is old school.”

“Ha. No,  _that_  was about your name. I never said anything specifically  _against_  calling,” you sigh, “I really hate to say this but I can’t do coffee.”

"Oh,” Dick's shoulders drop. There goes the obvious reason he hadn’t saved your number- too busy- it’s just the fear of getting too close only to have that ruined.

“Don’t sound so bummed, Richard, I haven’t finished talking yet. I work that day. But I can do Saturday. Say around ten?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay! I’ll see you then,” you say.

“Wait. Wait!” he exclaims in a panic. He can hear you let out a breath, soft and fluttering, and he wonders then if you were going to tell him, but now it’s too late to go back, “You never said where to meet. There’s a lot of coffee places in New York.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll text you the address.”

“Great! I, uh,” his face burns. He didn’t think through what he was going to say next, “It’s a date!”

Dick’s breath catches and he wants to smack himself for sounding so dumb, so cheesy. He doesn’t mind saying stupid things like that when he’s fighting criminals, it catches them off guard, makes it easier for them to go down with a distraction like that. But he wants to impress you, he wants this to go far, rather than ending so soon because he scared you away.

You laugh though, not put off at his eagerness, “I’ll see you later, Richard.”

* * *

 

He’s worn from the overexertion, throat feeling like it’s cracking from how much yelling he had to do, knees like jello when he finally lands face first on his couch, only allowed a minute of rest before his head pops up from the cushion. He’d forgotten your date in the middle of fighting.

Dick rushes to take off his Nightwing suit and his ankles get caught in it, tripping him as he tries to make it to the bathroom to shower the sweat and dirt off of his skin. 

He breezes through the motions, not even bothering to comb the wet mop of hair that would surely get frizzy as it dried in the city’s humidity. He will at least look a little bit put together when he gets dressed, carefully planned to hide his scars and bruises. He knows that it’d only scare you away, it isn’t the first time someone has dashed in the opposite direction the moment they saw the scars mapped out on his skin.

Of course, he would be late on a date. Why wouldn’t he? Dick knows it’s bad, that his life as Nightwing, as the leader of the Titans, takes more priority than anything else in his life, but maybe it’s a step in the right direction to be able to admit it. He didn’t think about this, having a life, being able to be carefree for a time. To worry about simpler things like when a paper is due or wondering if he said something wrong to his date. He doesn’t have to worry about one of those things anymore, much to Bruce’s exasperation.

* * *

 

It’s nearly a quarter past ten when he finally shows up. He’s got an excuse though, but it’s not really a good one. It’s a little flimsy and spotty in some areas; what else could he have on such short notice? Dick didn’t expect to be fighting off some interdimensional demons on a Saturday morning. But what else could be expected from being a member of the Titans? He can only hope that the single tulip he picked up will be able to get your forgiveness on this one.

There’s not a scowl nor a sign of anger in your features, just a little... absent, like you’ve gone off somewhere, lost in your own thoughts. 

“You’re like, twenty minutes late, you know?” you smile softly when you finally notice him, eyes immediately drifting from his face to the flower in his hand. You sit up straighter and lean towards him, “Is that for me?”

“I thought you’d like it,” he pulls out a seat and leans across the table, waving the yellow tulip in your face, “I kinda thought it would help with the apology too.”

You take the flower from him, smelling it with a blissed-out smile and eyes closed like it would help accentuate the scent or maybe block out some of the nastier views on the street and get lost in the sweet smell. It’s endearing the way your hand cups the flower, stem tucked between your middle and ring finger, thumb grazing a petal delicately, worthy of a painting.

“I don’t like being bought, Mr. Grayson, but this can slide. I like yellow flowers.”

“Glad to hear that,” he brushes the curls out of his face and slouches in his seat, “Listen, I'm sorry I am late, but there was-”

“Don’t ruin a perfectly good apology flower, Dick. It’s okay. We can be late every once in a while. It’s not that big of a deal,” you twirl the flower between your fingers and smile.

He doesn’t try to look past the glazed over look in your eyes, how the smile doesn’t reach your eyes like when you'd been standing beneath a street light with a bag of potato chips in your hand as you laughed at something dumb he had said. You place the flower carefully on the table and clasp your hands together, resting your chin on the tops of your hands; Dick mimics your movements. It gets you to scoff and wrinkle your brow, a light sparkle finally coming to your eyes, settling back into the calm and almost familiar type of energy that had surrounded the two of you the first time you met. It’s interesting how he can feel like that, like you’ve known each other for years and you’re just catching up rather than starting to completely open up. He hasn’t felt something like this in a long time, not since he met the original Teen Titans.

“You know, you’ve got the prettiest smile in this whole city,” it’s not a lie or a way for him to weasel out of his tardiness that so clearly bothered you. He’d be a damn fool to not be able to see that, a shitty detective too. But he’s not a shitty detective. Dick can pick up on just about anything. That’s what he was trained to do.

You turn your attention to your hands, the nail of your right thumb digging into the side of your ring fingers nail on the same hand. A nervous tic maybe. He watches closely, the way you brush the hair tucked behind your ear to almost curtain your face.

“Such a charmer.”

“I try,” he reaches out and pushes your hair back behind your ear. You don’t meet his eyes.

“And bold, apparently. I've never met anyone that would do that on a second date.”

* * *

 

He doesn’t bother with looking at the pager immediately; it can’t be that urgent, they’ve just gone toe to toe with some of Raven’s father’s lackeys. Dick just listens like he should be.

"I’m still taking my time and figuring it all out, I just want it to have it all down by the time I finish this year,” you sigh and push your straw around in your drink, “I’m just worried I won’t find something I love, you know? I’m scared to commit to something because I could wake up one day and think that it was a mistake and that I hate the path I’ve gone on. I’m pretty sure that that’s not such an unreasonable fear though. At least that’s what academic advisors have told me.”

“I’ve got the same thing too. I’ve had this... set goal in my life and it’s come crashing down on me,” Dick threads his fingers together. He’s had to tread carefully around this, trying not to allude to his persona and keep it casual and under the radar, “I just don’t see the end of it, but there’s always an end to these things. No matter what. You’ll know what you want sooner or later.”

You tilt your head and frown, “What’s crashing on-” you stop, brows furrowed in confusion as you listen to the rhythmic beep that comes from close by. You glance around the cafe before meeting Dick’s eyes and he can see that you know it’s his. He glances down and pulls the pager from his pocket.

Dick’s brow furrows and a lie completely unrehearsed easily slips to cover up the true reason he needs to leave, “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go. My friend got into an accident.”

You blink, “I- yeah, go ahead,” you wave him off, smiling even though he can hear the disappointment and worry that laces your voice, “I hope your friend is okay.”

He feels bad for lying. It would only be the first of many he would say to you, he realizes as he stands up, a hand braced onto the wooden surface of the table. Perusing this, balancing his two lives, might be too much. But then again, he doesn’t want to end up like Bruce, alone in himself, unable to connect because he’s fallen so deep into vigilantism. At least Bruce has Alfred there, a constant reminder to come back. And even though Alfred is always a phone call away, it’s not the same. He needs to hear it face to face.

“I’ll call you soon!”

Dick takes off, slowly at first, just to go under the radar, and maybe so it doesn’t seem that he’s running out on you because he doesn’t want to be there with you. Which is far from the case. He’s about to turn the corner when he pauses, taking one last look at you and can see you standing up, pulling the strap of your purse over your shoulder and stand behind the chair, hands clasped over the top of it. He stops, despite the constant buzzing in his back pocket, Victor sending the message over and over again to get his ass back to the tower. He watches you, bottom lip stuck between his teeth, wondering if he should have just ignored Victor, but it’s too late now, he can’t turn back and tell you that his “friend” is just fine. 

You look up and he ducks quickly behind the corner and leans his back against the building, heart hammering in his chest. Hopefully, you didn’t catch him staring. He pushes himself up and runs a hand through his hair before running down the street to get to his apartment and grab his suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Six months go by, and it feels like barely a blip on your radar. It feels almost natural to be with him, like the missing piece of a puzzle was finally found and you love it. Being with Dick is so much different than other relationships, it feels more open and honest and steady. Most of your relationships ended right before there could even be a distinction made between infatuation and love. You’ve just made it past the mark where your breakups occur and it’s almost a relief- no, it is- that it is a real thing between you.

You haven't said the three little words yet, and you’re okay with that, you don’t want to rush it. Or you just don’t want to face the disaster of saying it and him not returning the feeling.

It may be smooth, but there are bumps. He cancels dates and leaves abruptly during them, offering only vague details and apologetic smiles and quick kisses on the cheek before he leaves you alone. It’s very rare that your nights with him don’t end before they begin. But that’s unfair to him, there are nights where he doesn’t leave, where he stays wrapped around you, kissing, bated breaths and gasps beneath your sheets, fooling around like your teenagers.

You fold your clothes, shoulders aching in the repetitive movements. This is what you get for leaving your clothes to pile up in a basket, stacked precariously as it reached past the brim of the basket. Dick sits between your legs on the floor, cheek pressed against the inside of your knee, dozing off with a book left forgotten on his lap. Occasionally, you reach down to comb your fingers through his messy hair, trying to smooth it out, but each time failing and the hair curls starting to push back up.

You’re halfway through the stack of laundry when he finally stirs. Dick grumbles, moving his cheek against your leg, before he sighs and rolls his shoulders and neck, trying to work out the kinks that had formed in his sleep.

“Hi, baby,” you set aside the shirt in your hands and lean forward, planting a chaste kiss to the top of his head.

“What time is it?”

“Little past two,” you say, glancing at your phone momentarily, “Go back to sleep.”

He picks up the book and leans forward, setting it on the edge of the coffee table and huffs as he pushes it back with his fingertips. Dick crashes back against the side of the couch, eyes already closed again.

Your heart aches for him. He’s been stressed and anxious the past few weeks, and eventually, it’s going to catch up to him. You’re sure that it already is.

“Hey,” you move your knee to jostle him awake, “just go to my room. You’re gonna sleep better on an actual bed rather than propped up on the couch like this.”

“I know but...” he trails off, eyes closing again and face squishing up against your jeans.

“But what?”

“It’s weird sleeping alone.”

Your smile turns tight-lipped, most of the time you fall asleep with each other, you wake up alone and left in an empty apartment. You hate to get even upset with him, even while he’s tired. And you wonder what the hell he’s done to you. You’ve never wanted that, to be the person to push away their feelings to make more room for others. You want equal space, to be considered just as important in the relationship, but something stops you from speaking out and that’s you’re own fault. You know people aren’t mindreaders yet you act like they are.

“I’ll be there when I finish up.”

He turns to face you, sitting on his knees and raises to get closer to your face, “Promise?”

You hum and knock your knee against his arm, “Go get some sleep.”

* * *

 

Dick pulls his legs up onto the chair and crosses them. 

He’s tired, but he’s got work to do. This last recon mission had drained him- it’s drained them all, there’s nothing more affecting to a psyche is seeing people in pain and not being able to do a thing about it. His blood had boiled in veins and he knows he should have done something, that he could have, but there’s still a voice in the back of his mind telling him to remember the big picture. Taking the women and children held in cages now would only get the smugglers and traffickers to hide like rats, go underground and not surface until the threat was gone. He let everyone else go home to enjoy some downtime, but he has to finish this, to crack where they can strike next to bring the entire smuggling ring down with one fell swoop.

He’ll be late again for dinner. Again. He’s lucky that you haven’t brought up the idea of him cheating on you. Dick can’t keep up the ruse of him working this late forever, not when he technically doesn’t have a real job.

The brightness of the computer screens exhaust him, makes it harder to keep his eyes open and drys them out.

It all seems so simple, he knows the delivery dates, the shipping container numbers and where they will be left at the port, but something bugs him. It’s just too easy. There’s no way that the security is that loose for such a big operation run by one of the most notorious traffickers Dick has had the pleasure of knowing since his days in Gotham.

He runs his hands down his face and sighs. You’re going to be pissed.

“Dick.”

He turns the chair, surprised by the voice, but not altogether mad about it. It’s good to have a little reason to take a break. Donna leans against the door, an eyebrow cocked and a thin smile. She’s disappointed.

“You should go home.”

Dick exhales, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

He goes back to the files again, eyes straining to read the information he’s already read more than a dozen times, combing over it carefully to find anything he may have missed, but he knows he’s missed nothing. He’s grasping at straws now.

“I’ve known you a long time, long enough to call you my brother. This isn’t good for you, to be working this hard. You don’t need to do this, you can have a life if you didn’t focus so hard on this. You have someone that you should be spending time with. I know you want to take this down, I do, we all do, but you can’t do it on your own. We’re a team. We have to work together to figure this out. I’m worried about you. You’re taking on too much.”

“I’m the leader, Donna. That’s what leaders do.”

“You’re too much like Bruce.”

“Don’t,” he turns again to face her, pointing at her and grits his teeth, “ever compare me to Bruce.”

“Then don’t act like him.” Donna purses her lips and turns on her heels.

* * *

 

“Let me walk you home.”

You look up from the soapy water in the mop bucket. You hand is squeezed against the handle, tendons straining as you push it down into the mop in your other hand, slowly draining it of the water.

“No, you don’t have to, Jaime.”

“Please. It’s getting dark out.”

Your coworker smoothes out the sleeves of his jacket and stares at you, lips pulled into a frown and concern in his eyes. It’s nearly the end of your shift, all you have left is to mop. and you’d both agreed when your shifts became more in sync with each other’s that he would sweep and you would mop at the end of the day. His daughter’s birthday is today. You’re sure he wants nothing more than to go straight home to her instead of taking a half hour to walk you home.

“It won’t be the first time I walked home alone at night. Don’t worry about me.”

He’s hesitant to leave you here alone but doesn’t push it.

“Okay.”

He asks one more time when he clocks out when you’ve just finished mopping the first section behind the counter. You refuse once again, waving him off and focusing back onto your work, listening for the closing of the front door. The bell chimes and you sink with relief, finally having a few moments alone to yourself before having to go back to the stifling discomfort of your apartment that is most likely empty.

The fresh air drags away the scent of oily foods and sweat that churned together, permeating in the air and clinging to your hair and clothes. It makes you a little happier, despite the chills that run down you. You should have brought a jacket with you.

You scroll through your notifications, reading each of Dick’s texts. At least he was actually in your apartment and he ordered pizza. You’re too wrapped up in it, you brush off the sound of grass cracking behind you.

You’re dragged into an alleyway by your hair. The shock and force of the offender’s tug on your hair makes you drop your phone.

You try to remember what to do in this position, recalling all those school self-defense techniques, but you draw a blank, adrenaline clouding everything and the knife at your throat pressing tighter, it’s all you can think of.

“Don’t try anything and I’ll let you go,” his voice is raspy and his grip on your hair only intensifies, pulling back more and more until your head rests on his shoulder and your back is curved in an unnatural way in your attempt to keep yourself up and as far from him as possible.

You want to nod and tell him you’ll do whatever it takes to get out alive, but all that comes out is a whimper.

His lips are pressed against the shell of your ear, curved into a smile and parts to let his tongue swipe over his lips. You can feel it, the wetness and slick that his saliva leaves, and you can’t help but struggle. You writhe and wriggle and thrash in his hold on you. It can’t end like this.

You scream as loud as your voice allows you, and for a moment, just the briefest of time, you see someone stop outside of the alleyway, peering in and you reach and cry out for whoever they may be. They keep walking as if they didn’t see you.

It takes a moment to absorb it, thinking that it wasn’t real, that they were still standing right in front of you. A sob wracks your chest. It hurts your chest, burning and clenching; you’re confronted with the thought that you might actually die tonight. You’re going to die and you haven’t even told Dick that you love him, you haven’t gotten your degree, you haven’t gotten your dream job- even if it is still unclear to you, but you know it won’t happen anyway if this ends like you think it will. All that time wasted.

You close your eyes tight and dig your nails into his arm, trying to keep yourself steady. If you were going to die, you would go with a little bit of dignity.

Through your eyelids, you can see a flash of neon blue flying past you and you’re knocked breathless and lose your footing. He flies back first, hand still in your hair, yanking a hand full of hair out on his way down, the knife slicing through your shoulder. You cry out, falling after him but falling onto the concrete rather than him.

You feel the concrete, slick and hard, and the sickening thump of your head against the hard surface.

The man that had grabbed you shudders and moans, gasping weakly for help, but is ignored by you and your savior.

“Ma’am, you alright?” the voice is robotic, mechanical almost, but you can still hear it, the emotion and it’s almost rehearsed how your hero says it like he’s done it before, saving innocent people from the clutches of evil that lurk in this awful city. You suppose it makes sense when you finally make out your savior in the dark. The blue and red had not been a trick of the mind, but it’s familiar.

“Cyborg?” you know it probably isn’t his real name but that’s all you and the city knows, Cyborg, member of the Titans- formerly Teen Titans.

He chuckles and holds out a hand for you, “The one and only."

Cyborg lifts you up with ease and sets you up straight. You feel frozen staring up at the hero that you’d only seen in blurry images on the news.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

“No. I should just go home. I just want to go home.”

He nods, his somber smile not helping you as you try to process what just happened. The hand he places on your shoulder comfort you. You know you’re safe with him, there is nothing to fear with a certified hero at your side.

* * *

 

You watch him as he walks away from your apartment stoop, hands shoved in his pockets and head downcast, the hood almost hiding the glow of the mechanics in his face, but noticeable only if you look hard enough. He stops momentarily, glancing back to you, a cursory glance to make sure that you’re still okay, that nothing has happened in the seconds since he parted with you. You unlock the door and wave weakly at him.

The trek up to your apartment is daunting and you’re sure you won’t make it. You wished the elevator actually worked, but the superintendent had been too lazy to call a repairman. Thankfully, you’re on the fourth floor. You feel bad for Mrs. Flores, she’s all the way at the top of the building. Dick occasionally helps you take her groceries up for her.

Each step wears you down, the movement of your knees almost makes a frightening squeaky noise, but you’re sure it’s all in your head, just coming down from the rush of adrenaline.

The peeling paint and chipped wood of your door has never felt so inviting.

Dick is pacing when you open the door, you can’t see him, but you can hear the floorboards creaking beneath his feet, constant and loud. You drop your keys and purse on the floor, feeling like you’re running on autopilot, moving robotically until you stand just outside of where the entrance meets the living room.

He’s already heading toward you, eyes desperate and maybe even crazed, no not that, thankful, anxious, worried. You can’t make yourself move as he comes to hug you.

"You didn’t answer my calls.”

“I...” you’re at a loss for words. You don’t know what you should tell him, what you shouldn’t tell him. He doesn’t need to know this, from what you can tell, he’d damn near burned a hole into your floor pacing and waiting for you. His grip on you is tight, tight like his, but it doesn’t make you jerk away. His embrace is all warmth and kindness and love, even if you feel like you’re being smothered on his shoulder. He runs his hand over the top of your hair, flattening it against your scalp and neck from the sheer pressure of his hold. You wince though when his fingers run over the spot of hair that had been yanked out. Hopefully, he doesn't notice it.

“My phone died and I let Jaime leave early, so I had to finish up without him. I’m sorry.”

You’re surprised how easily the lie comes to you. You don’t think you’ve ever had to lie to him, you never had a reason to, but now you do, to protect him.

“God, don’t be sorry. You have no reason to be sorry. I was just worried,” Dick pulls away from you, hands moving from the back of your head and lower back to your cheeks, “I worry too much.”

"I know you do,” you place your hands over his, pressing them closer to yourself. You want to feel anything, get rid of the adrenaline that still pumps through you. You’re still on edge, waiting for someone to come out from a corner and grab you again.

Your head is tender and a little fuzzy as you press your forehead against Dick’s. You’d planned on acting normal, brushing off what had happened, to keep moving on, but something is calling in you to tell him. You hate keeping secrets from him. You know he won't handle it well though.

He tugs at your hands, pulling you with him towards the couch. You were too late to make dinner, and he’d ordered pizza instead, but it’d gone cold, only one piece eaten, barely. Just one bite was taken out of it and tossed back into the box.

“I was too anxious to eat.”

It’s shy how he admits it like he shouldn’t be that worried, or that he doesn’t want you to know how badly, how deeply he had been affected by it. But now, there’s nothing left for him to worry about. He takes a piece and bites into it, even though you both know he despises cold pizza.

He makes a face and sets the slice back down, hunger either not back yet or his contempt for the taste ruling over hunger.

You don’t know what comes over you, there’s no reason to it, and it’s almost mechanical how you straddle his thighs, pushing him back down onto the couch, hands wrapping around his wrists and keeping them pinned over his head. His eyes are curious, but there’s a light of something in them; he wants this. You don’t think you’ve ever been this aggressive in bed, especially not with him, you don’t have other people perceive you as assertive, people don’t like that in women. Dick seems to like it though, he arches his back, eyes fluttering closed and gasps when you lean over him, lips just brushing over his neck and teeth grazing gently at his skin.

He could easily break out of your grasp on him, you both know that, and you’re glad he doesn’t, you need some control right now. You release one of his wrists from your grip, letting your hand trail down over his chest until you reach the hem of his shirt. It stretches easily and without strain when you pull and tug on it. You glance up at him, freeing his wrist and cupping his cheek, waiting for permission from him. It always happens when you get to this part, undressing him. He likes to do it himself, but if you do, it’s hesitant. He flinched away the first time you tried to pull his pants down. You can see something in his eyes then, fear and a want to forget whatever pulls him into it.

Dick nods, pressing his cheek into your hand harder, closing his eyes as you gently push up the cotton material, breaking only for a moment to kiss him gently. When the shirt is over his head, he finally lowers his arms from their spot behind his head so he can rub his thumbs in circles at your hips.

You stare at his chest. It always knocks you breathless, to see the scars and bruises that seem to always make an appearance on his skin. He’d never offered up an explanation for most of them. (It was a shock the first time you’d seen him naked and you’d nearly wept, counting and realizing how much he’s been hurt in his life. He only waved them off, distracting you with sweet kisses across your jaw and soothing you to lie back on the bed.) You were fine without knowing, at least for now.  He wasn’t ready to tell you what happened, and you are fine with waiting. As for the bruises and occasional fresh cuts, your patience to learn about those were thin, but you’d still wait.

He has no shame in the way he moves, shuddering and a soft whimper falling from his lips as your hands move up his abdomen to his chest and finally ending up at his shoulders as you shift on his lap, moving your weight on your knees rather than resting it all on his thighs. He has other plans though, pulling you back down to rest on him. He likes contact, overtly so, much more than any man you’ve ever met. That’s okay though, you like it too.

He’s impatient, a hand on your back and the nape of your neck, wrapping gently and pulling you down until you’re just a breath away from his lips. There it is, stuck in the hesitance, the both of you this time. You wait, fingers wrapping into his thick curls, nails gently scraping over his scalp, reveling in the tiny groan he lets slip. You slot your lips against his, sliding your hands down to cup his jaw and press yourself against him.

You break away, breathless and shrug out of the thick jacket, dropping it to the floor by Dick’s feet. His hands fumble at the hem of your shirt, and as he raises it over your head, you realize how badly it smells. You grimace at the smell of oil and garbage and take it from his hands, throwing it as far from you as possible. He laughs at your expression.

“Shush,” you look down at him and smooth back his hair. You catch him rolling his eyes at you

“Babe, what happened?” his thumb gingerly brushes by the cut on your shoulder, smile pulling into a deep frown, brows furrowing and creases lining his mouth. At least it’s started to scab.

Fuck. You forgot about that.

“Nothing,” you breathe out, taking his wrist and moving it to your hip, “nothing happened.”

“It’s not nothing.” Dick pushes you off his lap, fingers digging into your upper arms and jaw locked tight. You don’t think you’ve ever quite seen Dick mad, upset and disappointed, yes, but to see him angry is something else. Or maybe it’s worry again. You let him push you into the corner of the couch, beginning to fret over the small cut. It wouldn’t even leave a scar.

“Is this why you were home late?”

You’re spiteful, you come to discover in that moment. You aren’t as okay with him not telling you about his own injuries as you thought you are. His breath stills when you turn your head, looking over his shoulder and past him. It’s petty and childish to not respond to him and you don’t know what’s snapped in you.

You hate secrets, but this, you couldn’t tell him this one.

“Just… Dick, please. It’s no big deal,” your resolve crumbles. His grip going tender and soft, fleeting and careful. You hate how easily you break for him, “I’m fine.”

“I’m not. Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t. I won’t.” 

* * *

Dick watches you from his spot on the edge of the bed, hands by his side, gripping and then relaxing the sheets that get stuck in his hands. He’s not sure where to go with this now. This isn’t his apartment, it isn’t shared, it’s yours- only yours. Should he leave? There’s not a particular protocol for this. Any time he gets in an argument with a girlfriend or boyfriend, they point him to the door and that’s the end of it, neither too invested in keeping it going beyond that. But he’s invested in this, in you.

You dig through a drawer in search of pajamas, skin damp and goosebumps covering your arms from the cold air that blows in through the window. You don’t spare a look or even tell him to get out. There’s nothing outright in what you want until you’re dressed and pulling back the covers.

He makes his move, pushing himself up and shuffling toward the door. If you don’t say anything now, it probably means he needs to go. He’ll give you some space, you both probably need it, you more so than him. He doesn’t want to go, not yet.

“Wait,” you’re sitting up, playing with your fingers, “you can stay. Please.”

Dick turns back to you without a second thought.


	4. Chapter 4

You can’t sleep, not with him watching you, staring at the back of your neck. He’s probably running through scenarios of what could have happened, thinking of ways to get you to slip up and tell him what happened, but it won’t happen, not now, not tomorrow, not this week, maybe not ever. You don’t want to tell him, so you won’t. If there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s burying shit away and locking it up so that it never sees the light of day again. Just another box to be put away. You came away unscathed, so why dwell on it?

The sheets become slick and heavy uncomfortable even though you left the window open. You always sleep a little better if it’s cold.

You turn over and his eyes are closed, but you know he’s still awake. His face isn’t relaxed and he hasn’t turned onto his stomach and taken up as much room on your bed as he possibly could.

Maybe you shouldn’t have asked him to stay, but a part of you is scared, turning into the little girl that used to hide under the covers, eyes screwed shut with your favorite stuffed animal tucked into your arms, hoping that whatever lurked in the dark would disappear. Your parents had told you that monsters don’t exist, that nothing creeps in the shadows, looking to grab you away and eat you whole. You know differently now. That monsters do exist, but they take on a more human appearance than the hideous ones you imagined as a child.

He makes you feel safe.

You shuffle your body awkwardly, feet getting tangled in the flat sheet that you had both pushed down to the end of the bed and one arm dead, feeling pins and needle and limb shaking as you push it beneath Dick’s head. He opens his eyes, finally letting his cover go and pulls you along the rest of the way. There’s no irritation in the way he looks at you. You can see the tiredness he tries to hide, opening and shutting his mouth multiple times, and you know that he wants to bring up the elephant in the room. He stops when you wrap your other arm around his waist.

He puts up no protest and lets you do this. And for a second, you almost feel bad for not telling him.

* * *

 

You wake up with your back to him and a pillow between your knees.

Somehow, it physically pains you to swing your legs to the side of the bed. There’s no reasonable explanation for it, but it’s there nonetheless; you can’t do anything about it. You hear a pop in your shoulders as you stretch your arms above your head and at last, the single and gut-churning pop that reverberates from your lower back. Dick stirs next to you, rolling onto his belly, face buried in his pillow.

_ His. _

You don’t think of it as a shared place, how could you? He still had his own place, but you’ve noticed the small piling of his things collecting in your apartment, that more often than not, he sleeps in your bed, even if he doesn’t stay the whole night most of the time. You suppose that it’s just that your apartment is more of a home than his. His is barren, only the bare essentials and no life, no personality placed along the brick walls. The only hint of him in the open concept is a record player and an old poster of the Flying Graysons—you’ve never gotten around to asking what the poster means, because every time you try to broach the subject, he tries to turn it around, so whatever it is, whatever has happened, it was obviously bad. But what surprised you most about his dwelling the first time you went to his place was how utterly expensive it looked; not just the minimalist style, but the location, the upscale neighborhood and the brand name stores that lined the streets. A month’s rent there would cost you everything you made in six months right now.

You still don’t know how he affords a place like that. You should know more about him. It’s throwing up red flags left and right how little he lets you in. There’s nothing wrong with a little privacy, but for him to barely give you any answers… that’s a warning for you. You’re overthinking it maybe. You know he’s got the right to privacy, you do too. It'd be hypocritical of you to call him out on it, especially right now.

“Are you up?” Dick smacks his lips and rustles the sheets.

You snort and turn to face him, “What do you think?”

He’s barely got his head propped up on his hand, eyes still shut and he wavers a moment, swaying before opening his eyes like he’s shocked himself awake. It only lasts a moment before he flops back on the bed, turning onto his back. He stares lazily at you, sleep still tugging at him, but he evades it, only just so.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

“Can’t. I’ve got class in an hour,” you sniff and roll your shoulders. You really don’t even have to go today, it’s an optional writing workshop, but you figure it’s better than being with him, while the argument from last night still lays thick in the air, suffocating the both of you in its grip. He won’t be able to leave it alone for long and you’d like to take as long as you can to avoid it as possible, “and then work.”

“I thought you said-”

“I need the participation points and the money.” you don’t like being so curt, but you’re not in the best mood to talk to him. You don’t want to start another fight and not so early in the morning. This can be fixed later. Maybe not tonight, but in the near future. You just can’t let it sit and stew for so long for the both of you.

He doesn’t argue. Dick pulls the blankets up and closes his eyes. Maybe you’ll get away with it with how passive he is to let it go at the moment.

* * *

 

Dick waits before getting up, watching the clock on your bedside table tick, the minute hand eventually making it to the six, and he pushes himself out of the comfort of your sheets. He doesn’t have anything to do, except for finishing the application for the police academy. Just another thing to add to his growing list of things he needs to tell you. He’s thinking ahead now, looking towards the future like you are, even though yours can be a bit more stress-inducing to even think about. He knows he can’t do this forever. His body is already starting to break down and he’s only twenty-six. Bruce has been doing it longer than him and he’s already had to get two knee replacements, has screws in both knees and ankles, most of his healed fractures haven’t even set right. Dick’s only a few years away from needing something like screws or replacements, his eardrums have burst more times than he’d like and it leaves a ringing in his ears, driving him up the wall and he can’t even tell you about it when it happens in the worst possible moments.

At least getting into the academy, getting into the force would do the kind of good he does with the Titans. He can help, he can use his skills in a more acceptable way, in a way that won’t leave his loved ones so vulnerable to attacks. He can move on and start a new chapter in his life.

In the long run, that’s what he needs. Stability.

He sits on the couch, crossing his legs beneath him and hunkers over the sheet of paper, taking his time to make his handwriting clear and legible. It’s tedious work, but it calms him.

* * *

 

The only thing good about filling in for Charlotte is the fact that she’s part-time and only works three-hour shifts three times a week, so it’s a relatively easy day. Jonah doesn’t cause any spills and everybody keeps to themselves. No rude customers and crying children approach the stand. For once, working at the theater doesn’t make you want to stab yourself with a rusty pair of scissors.

But the only thing of note you’ve accomplished all day is finishing an outline for your paper on Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development. The paper is due in a week and you can already feel the stress bearing down on you. Only two more weeks and you’ll be on break and hopefully you’ll get the grades you need. You’re so, so close to finally getting your Masters. Just another year and you’ll have it.

Shit. You’ve still got a case study due.

You spend nearly a half hour deciding where to pick up take out, settling on your favorite Thai, and carrying back enough containers of food to last you and Dick three days and stopping by a corner store to grab ice cream.

He’s sleeping on the couch, a bruise on his arm and a cut on his chin that had not been there this morning. You huff at the sight, something usually so endearing to you now only irritates you, but you try to keep quiet. Whatever it is that he does eats up all his energy.

Maybe he’s in an underground fight club.

You would like that idea hell of a lot more than the possibility that he’s cheating and his side girl is violent in bed.

The curry spills over on your hand when you open the container. You hiss and turn your back for a moment to wash away the food and soothe the minor burn to your skin and when you turn around, cursing beneath your breath, Dick is standing across from you, digging around the plastic bag for his usual order of panang gai. You startle at the sudden appearance, but quickly brush it off.

“Thought you were sleeping.”

He sniffs and doesn’t even spare a momentary glance at you, “I was.”

“Okay.”

Something swallows the room, pulling away the taste of curry and spices and replaces it with something sinister that makes your throat tighten. He doesn’t look at you and instead, he picks at his food, the usual banter and conversation not flowing so easily. The thought of asking him how his day was turns sour on your tongue, a motivation not to ask, to not say something that can turn into a road that you don’t want to take. It’s childish to avoid the problem, but you don’t want to face it.

He’s bothered by it too. Dick’s shoulders are squared, his jaw tight and he isn’t devouring his food and getting started on the next box. He hardly takes a bite, only coming so close as to raising the fork before dropping it back into the cardboard container.

“What happened?”

“Goddamnit, Dick.”

You push the curry away from you. Now, this is more childish, to turn away, to storm right out of the kitchen, but he catches you, hand shooting out and grabbing your forearm.

“Please.”

The word is enough to turn you over on this. You’ve never heard this, the way his voice breaks. He’s pleading.

And it breaks you so easily.

“I… I got pulled into the alleyway and this guy tried to rob me,” you look down, gently peeling his hand away from you and take a step back behind the counter to create a barricade, “at least, I think he was.”

He stares at you dumbfounded and brows furrowed, “You think?”

“Like, he didn’t rob me in the end. He didn’t get the chance to do anything. The uh… well, Cyborg chased him off before anything serious happened.”

“Anything,” he lets out a heavy breath through his nose, “serious? Jesus Christ. Are you kidding me? Are you trying to tell me that getting robbed wasn’t serious?”

You shrug. It wasn’t a big deal, nothing happened to you to cause any kind of harm. You’re intact, your identity wasn’t stolen, you still have all of your things, “Dick it’s not like I died.”

“That’s beside the point. You lied. Was your phone even dead? Why didn’t you call me?”

“There was nothing you could have done,” you collapse back against the couch. “What was I going to do? Say ‘oh hey creep with a knife to my fucking throat, do you mind if I call my boyfriend? He’s going to save the day and kick your teeth in.’”

“Do you have to be so argumentative and stubborn?” Dick gets up, opting to pace across the room rather than bouncing his leg. His pace only picks up the longer you stay quiet. You don’t know where to go from here. Continue arguing and prove that he’s right about you being argumentative and continue to butt heads over this or shut down and just hand everything over to him. You hate when he’s right.

“Uh, you started this!”

Deflecting. Nice.

“I started this? No, I didn’t! You did when you straight up lied to my face.”

“How did I lie? Tell me how! What would you have done if you were in my place? Wouldn’t you have ‘lied’ to fucking protect me?”

“Protect me? Is this what you thought you were doing? Protecting me? I don’t need to be protected. You were protecting yourself from saying what happened. I do not need to be a psych major to see that.”

You scoff at him. What right does he have to say that? It’s not like he’s right. That’s absurd, you don’t need protecting. You’ve faced some worse shit in your life and… oh. Maybe he is right. The constantly low expectations, the ease at which you give up out of fear of not being perfect.

“I love you, I just want you to be safe.”

“Don’t,” you stop him. You bite the inside of your cheek and look anywhere besides him, “Please go. I want you to leave.”

You don’t want to hear that right now, you can’t stand to hear it. It’s too much right now, to go from arguing, to actively feeling the rage grow, grow, grow and then flower in your heart, only to have him say the words that could settle that rage. It would have made your heart flutter only a few days ago, to feel on top of the world. Now there’s nothing. Just an emptiness left where there had just been a swell of emotions, the transition is enough to make your stomach turn.

You can hear him gather his things and the pause he makes after he opens the door. You don’t look up, waiting patiently for the sound of the door to close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Dick presses his lips in a fine line, unsure of how to feel about this. Glad that you’re alive, overjoyed and relieved, grateful. Should he even be grateful for you telling him the truth? That’s one of the most important things in a healthy relationship—he shouldn’t speak so quickly on that one. Maybe he should be angry. Angry at Victor for not telling him, but there’s not much blame he can place on Victor, Victor doesn’t know about you. Most of the team doesn’t. He’s angry at you for letting something so dangerous and threatening brushed off for him because you were concerned about how he would react because you wanted to protect him. **  
**

He isn’t sure of your standing now. It’s all up in the air.

It feels off coming home to his own apartment. The air feels cold and crisp and empty. There’s nothing waiting for him he realizes. His home isn’t a real home, just a place to sleep and store his things. It’s never felt like this, not since he’d first move in. It always happens with a new place, but he’d eventually get attached, but now, that attachment, that sense of home is gone. He hasn’t spent much time here in the last three months except when changing out of his Nightwing suit and to patch himself up and rest when he knows that he can’t go back to your place at such an hour without waking you up.

There’s not much for him here.

He tosses his jacket and keys on the table by the door. Dick doesn’t even bother to pick up the jacket when it slides off the edge. He just beelines to his bedroom.

He’s been thinking too much on the ten block walk to his apartment and for once, he would just like to  _stop_  thinking. Patrol has never felt so tempting.

* * *

 

He wakes up groggy, unable to move or unwilling to—he can’t distinguish which one it is.

The day drags on, there’s nothing much for him to do but stay in the tower and pull some connections together, to turn up anything that he may have missed, even though he’s been over every piece of evidence connected to this ring with a fine tooth comb. Multiple times. And still nothing.

“This is getting a little obsessive, don’t you think?” Donna says as she takes in the hundreds of photos and sticky notes that litter the wall.

“Just trying to do my job.”

He didn’t even hear Donna open up the door.

She picks up a sticky note from the wall, eyes squinting to make out the messy scrawl of Dick’s handwriting, “Y/N called me last night.”

“So?”

“She’s upset, Dick. Majorly so. It’s pretty hard to get her to cry like she did to me over the phone last night. I couldn’t make out a word she said,” she sits next to Dick, flipping through his notes, “It took me an hour to calm her down and she still didn’t tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know why she’d be upset.”

“Why’d she call me and not you?” Donna pokes his shoulder, “What happened?”

“We got in a fight. It was bad.”

Donna sighs, “What do you expect? You haven’t told her.”

“Neither have you,” Dick turns in his seat to look her in the eye, “But it wasn’t about me. The fight was about her.”

“Just talk to her, she wants to, but she’s too proud and stubborn to ask,” Donna takes Dick’s hand, squeezing it and offering him a gentle smile, “Trust me.”

* * *

 

You’re sitting on your couch, stirring the melting ice cream in its container with a movie playing in the background. You don’t know what it is, but you know it’s older than you given the fact that it’s in black and white. It’s a pity party and yes, it’s pathetic, but you’re heartbroken, even if it is your own fault. You should have just told him as soon as it happened and you wouldn’t be alone on a Friday night eating a carton of ice cream and a microwavable chicken pot pie.

_Just call him._

It runs through your mind to do it, to swallow your pride and to be the one to reach out and ask him to listen. Besides, it’s been well over a week since the argument, it would be too awkward to talk. Your relationship is floating in limbo and maybe you are too. It was a good run.

You take a bite of ice cream and groan before getting up to answer the door. You have no idea who it could be and the surprise of a visitor is unwelcome.

“Can I come in? I want to fix this and we have to talk to do that.”

You almost slam the door in his face just to be spiteful, but you sigh instead and open it wider, inviting him in. He’s right and you know it, and you don’t want to ruin a perfectly good—okay, better than average—relationship over an argument that can be smoothed over.

He nods and makes his way to the couch. You sit next to him, pulling the blanket around your waist and keep your hands in your lap. He looks… dull in a sense, there’s no glow around him—not like usual—no spark of emotion behind his eyes. He looks lifeless and tired.

“I’m sorry that I lashed out at you the other night.” Dick rubs his forehead and glances at you, “Some of the things I said were unfair.”

You sigh and look at your lap, “But it doesn’t mean that you weren’t right about it. I was scared to actually admit that it happened and that it was real. I was  _this_  close to dying, and I didn’t want it to feel real. Hiding it seemed better. Dick, I’m sorry. I know I should have told you but a part of me was scared and another part of me didn’t want you to worry. I don’t want to be another thing weighing on your shoulders. You already look like you carry the world on them, you don’t need the extra weight. I’m alright.”

“I’m supposed to worry about you. You’re my girlfriend. Don’t you worry about me?” he runs a hand through his hair.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why don’t you want me to worry about you?”

“It’s not that I didn’t want you to, it’s that,” you sigh, trying to find the words to put to your thoughts, “I was scared of what you’re reaction would be. That you wouldn’t be all that concerned and blow it off as no big deal.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I was scared that we think of our relationship in two different ways. That I’m taking it serious and for you, it’s just a short fling.”

“I would hardly call six months a short fling.” Dick raises an eyebrow, his lips pulling into a small smile that dissipates as soon as he catches your glare.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, “Every single relationship I’ve had, I’ve given more than I got back. I was always more serious about it and the people I’ve dated, they weren’t looking for that, none of them were. And I guess I can’t blame them. We’re still young, why settle down? But I just didn’t want us to be like that, because, Dick, I love you. I love you so much and I don’t know what to do about it.

“The only thing on my mind when that guy was holding a knife to my throat was about you, about how much I loved you, how stupid it was of me to wait to tell you that because I was scared and didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

He stares.

“I’m tired of being scared to do things because I don’t want to be disappointed and I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“Babe, you could never disappoint me.” he whispers, eyes watering as he presses his forehead against yours, hand gently cupping the back of your neck, “I’m scared that you’re gonna wake up one morning and realize maybe I’m not best for you. I’m not here a lot when I should be, I miss dates, I leave without telling you. And I’m trying to change that.”

“People don’t change, Dick,” you whisper, pulling away from him. His eyes, still so haunting, look over your face, taking in the small frown that pulls the corner of your lips down,

“I believe they do. I know I can,” he says softly, finger trailing over the curve of your cheek, “Give me a chance to.”

“Okay,” your voice breaks near the end. Nobody’s ever wanted you like this, to change themselves in a way that will help the relationship, to fight to keep this going, to fight for you. You’ve fought to keep your relationships from coming apart at the seams and you are desperate to try to mend it. He’s changing that for you. He’s making the change, wanting to, fighting to keep you and you’ve never felt more loved than now as you seep in this realization.

“Okay,” he says softly and smiles His fingers trace your jaw—light, fleeting and it puts you on edge.

His kiss is gentle and his hold on you becomes tighter.

You don’t understand what’s going through your head, you’d been angry at him, absolutely livid at the thought of even being around him not even five minutes ago, but he’s done it once again, broken you down with a smile and the softest touch, everything you’ve craved from another person all your life. To be close and to bask in the feeling of love, you’re sure if it was humanly possible, you’d glow from content, a bright shade of pink. To know that you are in love and loved by another untangles the cords of doubt around your heart and lets you believe a little easier than he does love you, that you are worth it to him.

Dick cups your cheek, thumb running across the swell of your cheekbone. His eyes are soft and just as enchanting as the first night you’d met him. You’re not in a bad place now, right at this moment, there’s no tension over your clashing schedules, the worry in the back of your mind that he’s gotten bored with you or is seeing someone on the side. It’s not like he has a steady job where he has to be out so late or be gone for long periods of time. He would do everything in his power to keep you. He loves you.

_He loves you._

You don’t know what to make of it, but you take the chance. You fall into the kiss, smiling and easily gliding your lips against his, feeling for his hand, wanting nothing more than to be close to him. You hate the separation, the barrier that you had put up, too scared, too frightened of what could happen. You’re scared of getting hurt, but you let your walls crumble for him. Somewhere, you know he is worth it.

“Do you want to stay?” you wish away the tightness in your throat, pushing down the knots you feel forming in your stomach. You don’t know why you’re nervous, there’s no reason to. You trace the curve of his bottom lip with your thumb gently. What if you scare him away?

He opens his mouth, but decides to nod instead, encompassing your wrist in his hand. The touch sends a shock up you. You’ve missed this, the tenderness that seemed to come naturally to him, to you, when you were together. It’s barely been two weeks since you were together like this and it hits you like a train, that this is something you desire in your life. You can never go back to the coldness of being alone, letting yourself be alone all the time.

You stand, shifting the grip he had on your wrist so you are the one who holds him. You tug and pull him softly like you’re encouraging him to follow. Each step he takes is eager, not a sign of hesitance with how he approaches. Soon he’s almost toe to toe with you and you have to look up more in order to look him in the eye. His strides become shuffles when he closes in on you. You’re in no hurry.

When you cross the threshold of your bedroom, you turn, pushing him back until the back of his knees hit the mattress and you release him from your grip.

He lands on the mattress with a huff and pouts, “That hurt.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

Dick grins at you and sits up, reaching out for you as you straddle his thighs. It’s nice, being able to look down at him rather than having to look up. The good thing is that he’s not incredibly taller than you, still tall, but not inconveniently so. You cup his cheeks and tilt your head.

Your hands settle on his shoulders when you lean your forehead against his before they slowly feel their way down his arms. The scars there frighten you, but not quite like the ones on his abdomen do. He still hasn’t told you the stories, and you doubt that they’ll come anytime soon. Something in you feels like your missing something obvious about this like the answer is staring right at you but you’re blind to it.

You sneak your hands under his shirt with the intention of just feeling his warmth, but his breath hitches when you pass over the biggest of the scars, the knitting of skin there that’s still discolored even though he had told you he’d received it almost two years ago. It runs over his chest, right over his heart and across to his lungs and continues down, down, down, all the way to the curve of his hip. You wonder how deep it had gone, but you don’t dare ask him.

“How much did it hurt?” you whisper.

“Too much to put into words.”

Dick takes your hand, pulling it away from the scar tissue and kisses your fingertips. A gentle reassurance. He’s okay. You’re okay. You’re both okay, maybe a little cracked and rough around the edges—but you’re okay.

You pull away and shuffle up the bed, resting your back against the pillows. It’s been a long day.

He follows you and only stops when your noses just barely graze against each other. Dick hovers, his palms planted by your hips and breath fanning across your face. It’s uncomfortably warm beneath him and you writhe and move your head back so you don’t go cross-eyed trying to look him in the eye.

“I was terrified, you know, when you told me about it.”

“I know.”

He lowers his head, nudging your nose with his before settling on resting his forehead against yours. His voice cracks, “I don’t want to lose you. I’ve lost too many people.”

You close your eyes, trying to stop the forming of tears. A knot forms in your throat, tightening and making it hard to breathe. You cup his cheeks.

“I can’t lose you too.”

“You won’t. Promise.”

You know you can’t promise something like that, it’s dangerous and binding and wholly unachievable in the end. But he needs to hear it. You know about his parents. All it took was a Google search on The Flying Graysons to pull up the whole story. He never shared it with you— not openly. He alluded to it but never talked about it. Understandable considering how young he was when it happened. You didn’t tell him you knew, waiting for him to open up, something he didn’t give you. But you know you would have easily carried that secret with you for years, kept in the back of your mind most days until something stirs it up in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep. It’s happened before. Dick isn’t like you though. He needs to be eased into it, let it out little by little before baring it whole to another person.

He kisses you, sweet and soft. It’s a wonder. Honey smooth kisses and fleeting touches of his fingers against your hip. You pull him closer, legs wrapped around his hips and you buck against him. He falls, knocking his nose against your cheek as he catches his weight on his forearms. You bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing.

It only stops him momentarily as he tries to readjust his balance before he makes his way down to your jaw.

“Dick,” your breath hitches.

He smiles against you, “Yeah?”

Dick moves down and pushes up the silly Superman shirt you’re wearing. He kisses over your breasts, wet and open-mouthed kisses that leave you with chills running through you. All you can do is moan.

Whatever you were going to say was tossed out the moment you felt his warm breath fan across your chest.

His fingers hook into the band of your sports bra. For a second you feel shy, realizing you are wearing your least sexiest undergarments. You’re wearing your most comfortable pair of underwear that Donna teasingly calls your granny panties. Dick has never cared what you wore or what state of disarray you were in, he always viewed you as the most beautiful woman in the world, always a look of tenderness in his eyes, nothing but adoration behind them even if your hair had gone frizzy or a giant birds nest had appeared at the back of your head.

He closes his lips around one of your nipples when he tugs your sports bra up and you do everything you can to stop yourself from moaning. It’s embarrassing how fast he unravels you. Dick looks up at you, eyes alight with mischief and he gently sucks.

You bury your hand in his hair and rock against him. You can feel him, heavy and hard, and eagerly pushing his hips against yours.

Dick moves on, kissing your nipple once before leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the valley of your breasts and down your stomach, occasionally nipping in places and smiling at the giggles you let out from the sensitivity.

He makes quick work of your sweatpants, pulling them down and tossing them to the side. Your shirt and sports bra follow quickly behind your sweats.

It feels comfortable to be naked with him.

“Kinda unfair that you’re wearing clothes,” you say breathlessly, leaning back and supporting your weight on your forearms. You bite your lip when you see him roll his eyes but reach for the hem of his shirt.

He leans over you, cupping one of your knees and pushing it to the side to make room for his hips between your thighs. Something buzzes between you, sending shocks down your arms and chills across your spine. You sit with bated breath, staring at him as he glances down to your lips briefly.

Dick caresses the apple of your cheek. His lips press against yours, soft and hesitant, but he quickly falls into old patterns. His other hand makes a home between your thighs. You whimper against him when you feel his finger circle around your clit.

Already you can hear the obscene slick noises as his fingers move down and presses into your cunt, probing your entrance. He pulls away from the kiss and presses his forehead against yours as he pushes his index and middle finger inside. You moan, back arching and eyelids fluttering shut.

He taps his thumb ever so lightly against your clit, chuckling when you pull him closer to you, your fingers digging into the skin on his shoulders and leaving crescent shaped indents from your grasp. You struggle to maintain a steady breath, especially when he comes in to kiss your neck.

“Stop teasing.”

He pulls his fingers away from your warmth and sucks two of them into his mouth. Dick smiles around his fingers. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you and he wants to get that rise out of you—and you give it to him without hesitation. The slow, rhythmic grind of your hips against him, the heavy breathing and shuddering gasps you let out, he takes them in and for a moment you think he gets more out of it than you do.

You raise yourself off the mattress, only just a few inches, and cup his cheeks to kiss him while he positions himself above you, the tip of his cock softly rubbing over your wet folds. You take to kissing his neck, one hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer to you, and he easily moves with you, tilting his head to allow you easier access as he pushes inside of you.

You crave the familiarity of his movements and the sweet utterances of your name more than ever now that it’s just in your reach. He moves his head back, looking you in the eyes, and under his gaze, you feel nothing but love radiating from him.

You approach your own orgasm fast. The tightness and heat pool in low in your abdomen, and as embarrassed as you are by the fact. You can’t bear to even utter it, especially when you begin to rub circles around your clit. You’re sure he knows because you can’t stop babbling. It’s a mixture of his name and baby, each word punctuated by obscene, low moans.

He’s incoherent, your name and breathy gasps are the only thing he can manage to get out, the only thing you can understand. He mumbles against your neck, lips dragging over the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. The snap of his hips go from sinfully slow to inconsistent and hard, searching and desperate to reach his own.

It’s sudden and his thrusts into you once, twice, three times before he lets out a guttural moan. His knuckles almost go white with how hard he grips the sheets by your head. He grinds against you, riding out the rest of his orgasm. Dick smiles sheepishly and hangs his head.

Dick sighs and lowers himself against you, head resting on your shoulder. You hold him close, realizing how lucky you are to have him. He understands you in a way few others ever have.

You feel complete in the moment. You’re surrounded by his warmth, eclipsed by the soft thudding of his heart and the even, low breaths he takes. Dick doesn’t move, only kisses your shoulder and closes his eyes, his smile fading and the tension and tiredness he’d walked into your apartment with melts away too.

He wants this. He wants you. He loves you. Love. Want. You were always taught that something you want isn’t something you need. But the want to be loved, to love, is that not a need?

You kiss his forehead and curl your fingers into his hair.

* * *

 

He calls a meeting almost as soon as he walks into the tower. He’s happy, he feels good, and when he feels good, his best thinking comes through. There’s not much but they need to continue to plan and to strategize. There’s a lot of work to be done and he wants to ride this euphoria out, even if he’d rather do it with you. This works, at least it’s productive.

Victor is shooing away Gar, whose new purpose it seems is to be a pest, asking him what Vic is doing at the computer. Gar’s either running on extra energy or he’s bored out of his mind, and both seem equally likely.

Donna’s just arrived still in her civilian clothing. She’s still trying to balance her life between normal and superhero-ing. He has no better word to describe it. Dick doesn’t like calling it vigilantism. Too illegal. But whatever made up word he’s got is better than the truth of what it is. Illegal. It’s a surprise nobody has ever made a point against them like that.

“I think I have an…” he trails off, looking at the screen in front of him, lost in the fact that on the monitor was your purse, the horrendously bright blue faux leather standing out in the dim lighting and pixelation of the close-up image. He got you that purse as a gag gift, he never expected you to like it, or to actually use it. But it could be anyone’s, he got it at a chain store. He can’t risk jumping to conclusions so fast.

“Dick? You good there?” Vic asks, turning his chair away from Gar, who has perched on the keyboard in front of him, pecking at Victor’s shoulder with a beak, “Cut that out.”

Gar squawks when Victor swats at him, flying and leaving behind a trail of feathers. He turns back into a human, arms crossed and a pout settling onto his lips, “Don’t be mean, I’m injured.”

“You got a bruise running around as a tiger. I wouldn’t call that an injury.”

Donna shushes them both, gently flicking Gar on the arm, “Boy Wonder, what are you thinking?”

“Uh, nothing, sorry. Just a little distracted,” he clears his throat and pulls at the gloves on his hands, “Right, so, uh, they’ve got middlemen doing the dirty work, picking up the victims. And she was a victim of opportunity. I think he’s part of the Mulroney ring.”

“I- how’d you come to this? Like, it seems a little bit like a stretch,” Donna squints at the screen, “I mean, you can hardly make the guy’s face out. How do you know that he’s part of it?”

“It’s the same kind of tactic.”

“Tactic? Dick, traffickers usually target victims beforehand. They blackmail, they recruit, they manipulate the victims, coerce them. This attack looks random, totally unplanned. It looks like a run of the mill burglary. Either way, it’s unfortunate.”

“Some of the victims have reported being recruited like this. Kidnapped and then later being forced into it through some kind of brainwashing,” Dick nods to Victor, tapping his thumb against his bicep, “Can you clear up the pixelation?”

“No need to. I saw the guy.” Victor easily pulls up a picture of the man, blurred and darkened from the movement he took the photo at, but it was the best one there was.

Dick looks at the photo, tracing each line of it, trying to make out the feature of the other face on the screen, but it’s too blurred. The outfit though, it’s your uniform—more accurately it’s the clothes you’ve designated for your job. Red shirt with a small rip near the hem that’s barely visible at first glance, black slacks and the horribly mismatched sneakers, stripped with magenta and blue. You always said they were your comfiest pairs of shoes and it didn’t matter if you wore them because the customers weren’t going to be looking down at your feet from over the counter. And comfort, in this case, overruled style and matching.

“So when were you gonna tell us that?” Dick tries to look the right amount of invested but not too interested. He can feel Donna’s eyes on him, scrutinizing the change in his voice, the slight deepening, and carefreeness of it. Of course, she would notice. It won’t be long until Kory catches on, and Raven eventually—wherever she had made off to. Meditating most likely.

“As soon as you stopped arguing.”

Donna starts slowly, “Brainwashing isn’t real, not on this kind of scale.”

“I didn’t say that they were taking the women by groups and brainwashing them in groups of a hundred. On the individual level, with enough manipulating.”

“Do you think,” Koriand’r interjects, sitting on the desk next to Victor, “we could send someone in? One of us could gather information, learn the ins and outs of the operation and report back.”

“Kory, that’s a good idea but that’s something that could take months, years even. To build up that kind of repertoire in weeks would be-”

“Well, we can go for as long as it takes to bring the whole thing down. We can keep taking off parts of this ring, and still be fighting for the long term solution.” Kory crosses her ankles and purses her lips, “We can’t learn anything from the outside.”

The arguing between Kory and Donna blurs and hazes for him, nothing but white noise as he pieces it together. You could have been one.

_You._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! kudos and comments are appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All feedback is appreciated!!!


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